


All That is Good and Green

by Catallii



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: ... but like in a fun way, Enemies to Lovers, Fix-It, Fluff, Javert Lives, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23861701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catallii/pseuds/Catallii
Summary: A forest can sprout from a single seed, after all – even if that seed is a seed of doubt.Instead of throwing himself from the Pont au Change, Javert returns again to Rue de l’Homme Armé to discover for himself how a criminal and a saint can both live in the body of a single man. And again. And again.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 19
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the sewerchat beta fish for catching my errors and making suggestions – you know who you are. ;D
> 
> This fic is based on [this tumblr post](https://thatbarricade.tumblr.com/post/190682099975/afoxnamedmulder-afoxnamedmulder-au-where), which made me laugh an inordinate amount.

A man stood upon the parapet of the Pont au Change.

He gazed pensively down at the river beneath him. On a dark, moonless night such as this, the foam turned an unpleasant, dirty grey; the water was as black as the sky above. The river was so wild here, dashing and frothing against the piles, that it almost looked like it was boiling. The man stared, quite motionless, for some time, the slow flex of one fist the only indication that he was flesh and blood and not a statue. At length, he exhaled a great sigh, and the straight line of his shoulders dropped by degrees.

This man was, of course, Inspector Javert.

He’d been perfectly decided as to his course of action on the journey here, but now that he stood on the precipice – both metaphorical and real – he found that something halted his steps. He didn’t know what it was.

Suddenly, a gust of wind rushed by, tugging at the edges of his greatcoat, picking up his hat and sending it sailing into the water. Javert swayed, arm twitching as though to lunge after it, and for a moment, he seemed destined to fall. His shoes slid on the parapet; a small stone kicked loose. The splash was inaudible, swallowed entirely by the roaring of the river. Then he regained his balance, shoulders tense and fists clenched. The wind died down once more, leaving only the stifling heat of a summer night in Paris, and the world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

Javert stepped back down, onto the safety of the bridge.

Slowly, he turned his back to the river, leaning against the balustrade and hunching in on himself.

He was not a man given to expressing his thoughts in words; he read newspapers only to keep abreast of current events and, with the possible exception of tonight, had never written anything not directly related to his work. In fifty-odd years of life, the term _eloquent_ had never once been applied to him. And so, he found himself completely at a loss to explain the sudden instinct that had risen inside him, saying: _stay._ One gloved hand dragged across his bottom lip as he tried to wrestle the maelstrom of his thoughts into some semblance of coherence.

Despite setting his affairs in order, he realized, there were things yet left unfinished. Questions left unanswered; one question in particular. Yes, that was the thing – exactly _how_ could he have made such a great error? Either Valjean had had some reason to let him live, or he’d spent decades chasing a good man; the uncertainty ate away at him, like an itch between his shoulder blades where he could not scratch.

Almost without realizing it, he began to walk, feet carrying him away from the bridge, and the river, and the twenty feet of void between the two that whispered: _jump._

He was, in a sense, lucky that the revolution was so near; one could still hear the occasional retort of a rifle, and every last house was tightly shuttered, inhabitants waiting for the storm to pass. There was nobody on the streets to be tempted to take advantage of a policeman wandering, alone and distracted, his hands clasped behind his back. He walked an aimless, meandering path as he sank deeper and deeper into the mire of his thoughts. Why would – what would impel Valjean to stay his hand? To set him free? Perhaps he’d considered his death at the barricade all but certain, in which case it didn’t matter whether or not Javert was left alive to pursue him – but in that case, that would simply be all the more reason to take his revenge while he still could, would it not?

He’d accused the man of wanting to make a deal, tried to goad him into shooting – but Valjean had rejected him, flat-out, and the idea of a deal as well. Had he perhaps expected Javert to be swayed if he pretended not to want any recompense? And yet, in that moment, his denial had seemed… genuine.

Perhaps the reason was as simple as not wanting to soil his uniform with Javert’s blood – but no, the _surin_ had only come out later; Valjean had had a gun on him, he would have been able to do the deed cleanly. He’d heard the gunshot when he was halfway down Rue des Prêcheurs.

The knife had come out only to cut the ropes fettering him.

That thought, that memory, stopped his line of reasoning dead in its tracks, scattering his thoughts and ruining what little order he’d managed to impose on them. They were once more a storm, falling over themselves like a crowd clamoring to be heard; Javert attempted to chase one down only to be interrupted by another, each one bursting to the forefront of his mind until he’d arrived, without realizing it, back at the first, and the cycle began once more. A whirlpool of half-formed ideas that dragged him down as inescapably as the Seine would have done.

Perhaps Valjean had simply let him live on a whim, and nothing more. Could that be?

Unbidden, the image of Valjean’s grave face rose to the surface of his thoughts. His eyes, sombre but steady; the moonlight turning his uniform grey and his hair silver.

_“I do not expect to leave this place alive; still, if I do—”_

Javert shuddered. No, it could not be that simple. Valjean was a clever man, and calculating; it was how he’d escaped the law all these years, after all. There must have been some ulterior motive at play, some reason why it was better for him to release Javert than kill him. There had to be _something._ He ran a hand through his whiskers in exasperation.

He could only guess at Valjean’s motives at the moment – but he could find out.

Yes, he could find out, for if Valjean was no more than a malefactor with a motive, surely Javert could unearth it. Then the two roads he saw stretching terribly before him would collapse into a single path once more. 

He would return to ask him directly, then; after all, the man could fool others, but never Javert – in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he’d had fooled the entire town into thinking him respectable – but not him. Not Javert. If Valjean attempted to lie to him, he would know it. If he attempted to conceal, Javert would uncover. He would find the truth of the matter. Of that much, at least, he was certain.

And if it turned out he _had_ been wrong, that he’d been chasing a good man all this time… well. _Well._ If that was the case, he told himself, the Seine would still be there tomorrow.

❁

It was still dark when he arrived once more at Number Seven, Rue de l’Homme Armé, but it was that soft, faded dark that immediately precedes the dawn. It was perhaps just past five o’clock in the morning, though Javert had been entirely deaf to the church bells pealing the hour. He curled one hand into a fist and pounded on the door. To be perfectly frank, he half expected the house to be empty and cold by now – surely Valjean would have taken this… this dereliction of duty on his part – surely he would have taken the opportunity to flee, even if he _had_ told Javert the truth of his address.

And yet, to Javert’s surprise, after a few minutes of (mostly uninterrupted) knocking, the door opened. Valjean stood inside, dressed in his shirtsleeves and a waistcoat, and wearing a look of grim resignation. His gaze took Javert in before sliding over his shoulder, and he blinked in obvious confusion. Evidently he’d expected Javert back with a contingent of gendarmes, or similar; a bark of laughter threatened to burst out of Javert at the thought. To expect him back with help, and still not run – it was inexplicable. Unacceptable.

Instead, he pushed past Valjean, through the entrance hall and into the first door he found, which proved – as expected – to lead to a small sitting room. A large fireplace dominated the room, with a sofa and a pair of comfortable-looking _bergères_ upholstered in a flower-print fabric that seemed incongruously feminine for someone like Valjean arranged around it. On an end table near one of the chairs there was a haphazard stack of books, and an empty teacup on a saucer. The hearth was still lit, despite the hour – had Valjean been up all night? Javert’s eye took in every detail, and he paced the length of the room (one, two, three, four strides) before turning back to Valjean. The man was hovering near the doorway, eyes tracking his every move. Javert could see the tension in the lines of his body from across the room; it looked like he was keeping himself still through sheer force of will alone.

Why did he refuse so steadfastly to flee? What was keeping him here?

His voice came out gravelly as he said, “Explain.”

Valjean jumped minutely; his brows drew up and together in obvious confusion. At last he echoed, “... Explain?”

Javert found the decisiveness that had fled from him at the Pont au Change suddenly restored, and he threw himself at the point unflinchingly. “At the barricade, you let me live. _Explain,_ Valjean.”

The man took a few tentative steps into the room; the confusion on his face had not lessened one iota. “I fear I don’t understand the purpose of your inquiry…” He trailed off for a moment before asking quietly, “You do mean to arrest me, do you not?” The last time Javert had heard him sound so meek had been that night at the hospital, over a decade ago.

“Indeed, I should.” He paused. “I shall.”

If Valjean had noticed his correction, he gave no indication of it; his expression was clouded, turned half away from Javert. For a long moment, he said nothing; one hand twitched towards his wrist, as though he was resisting the urge to fix the cuffs of his sleeves.

“I never had the least intention of killing you,” he said, turning to look at Javert once more.

“So you have said, but _why?_ If not a deal, then what was your motive in letting me go?” he demanded.

“I...” Valjean was shaking his head. “No, there was – there was no motive, Javert.”

“Then you spared me on a whim?”

“No—”

“Then I _do not understand._ ” His voice had raised almost to a shout by the end of the sentence; Valjean’s eyes darted to the ceiling, suddenly tense, and he raised one hand in an abortive gesture as though to shush Javert. Odd – did he live with someone? A wife, maybe? Or perhaps just a housekeeper. There was no shortage of people a convict might want to keep from learning the truth.

“Won’t… won’t you sit, Inspector?” Valjean gestured at one of the _bergères_. “I believe I can answer to your satisfaction, but – it may take some time.”

Javert considered him; normally he wouldn’t even think to accept hospitality from a con, but… he had to know. And Valjean seemed, for the moment at least, to be sincere. He took a seat in the _bergère_ closest to the door. Valjean walked past him, giving him the widest berth possible given the size of the room, and perched on the far end of the couch.

“How much do you know about what happened between my release from the _bagne_ and when I arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer?” he asked, not meeting Javert’s eyes. He stared fixedly into the fire as though seeking guidance from it.

“You followed your itinerary until Digne, whereupon you were accused of stealing silver from a bishop’s household, and a forty-sous piece from a young _Savoyard,”_ Javert rattled off. He knew the contents of Valjean’s file by heart. “Thereafter you broke parole and disappeared. Until Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

The man’s broad shoulders curved in on themselves. “I suppose that is accurate, yes,” he sighed. Then his gaze found Javert’s. “I doubt anybody would remember, but I did try to keep my parole, at first. Only – nobody would let me in. Nobody would hire me, or if they did, they stole from me. ‘Half wages are good enough for yellow papers like yours,’ I remember them saying at the end of the day.

“At every inn in Digne they turned me out; every household barred its doors to me. In desperation I begged at the local jail for a bed, and they said: ‘Break the law. Then you may sleep here.’ The living did not want me, but death would not take me. At last, I resigned myself to a cold night on a stone bench.”

Javert’s eyebrows raised; he opened his mouth – was he supposed to be impressed by a few short weeks of attempting to keep to the law in the face of adversity? But Valjean was quicker on the draw.

“I do not tell you this to justify myself; nothing can justify what I did. But you must understand the state of my – my soul, Javert,” he said quietly. He dragged the back of one hand across his mouth.

“You said I stole silver from a bishop’s household; it is true. As I lay down to sleep, an old woman – I never learned her name – woke me, and told me… ‘Knock on that door,’ she told me. ‘They will answer.’ And they did. The bishop of Digne took me in, fed me from his own table, treated me like an honored guest. And in repayment, I took his silver – the only thing of value in the house! And I fled into the night.”

Valjean smiled then, though it was not a happy one. “I suppose I felt that I was somehow owed this. ‘After nineteen years in the _bagne_ for stealing a single loaf of bread,’ I thought, ‘why not even the scales?’ Something like that. It was wrong – of course it was wrong! But in that moment I thought it just.”

Javert said nothing, intrigued despite himself. He knew some of the details, but hearing the whole story contextualized them, like a familiar bit of scenery that has had a new light thrown suddenly across it.

“I was caught before I went very far; they dragged me back to the bishop’s door; called him Monseigneur. Monseigneur! Until that moment, I had believed him to be the curé. And do you know what he did, Javert?” Valjean glanced his way; Javert had a sinking feeling he knew _exactly_ what he was going to tell him next. His hands clenched reflexively over the arms of the _bergère._ Still, he said nothing.

“He bade the gendarmes release me; told them he had given me the silver, as a gift. Me, the wretch who had repaid his kindness with thievery. And then he said—” Valjean broke off, voice suddenly thick, one hand on his chest. He took a ragged breath before continuing. “He said that I had forgotten the candlesticks, which were the best of the lot, and should fetch two hundred francs.” As he spoke he gestured up at the mantlepiece where, indeed, two candlesticks – silver, but otherwise plain – sat in pride of place.

“And he told me that the next time I visited, I need not knock, as the door was only ever shut with a latch. Then he said…” Valjean shuddered, his gaze distant, fully in the past. “He said to me: ‘Do not forget: you have promised to use this silver to become an honest man. Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul I am buying for you.’” A tear slid down the curve of his cheek into his snow-white beard, and he brushed the track away with one thumb.

“So you see, Javert – you were right, in a way; I would have become exactly what you thought I was, had it not been for Monseigneur Myriel.” He exhaled shakily; his elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped between them. “It was his kindness, and his kindness alone, that saved me from perdition.”

For some time, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. Javert was silent, unable to formulate a response. The enormity of what Valjean was telling him was too great for his head to contain. Filled with a sudden, restless energy, he rose and began to pace the length of the room again. He reached the far wall and turned sharply on his heel, striding the other way until he arrived at the front window, then repeating the process. He ran one hand through his hair, though he knew in the back of his mind that he must look absolutely dishevelled by now. A few strands slipped his queue, falling over his face, partially obscuring it.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Why would he give you the silver – he had no way of knowing…” His muttering diminished in volume until it was all but inaudible. Though he did not see it, Valjean observed him steadily from the sofa; the man was utterly at a loss in the face of his odd behaviour.

What Valjean was claiming – to be so profoundly touched by a single act of kindness as to completely change the course of one’s life? It was absurd on all counts; never, in all his years with the police, had he heard of such a thing occurring.

Was it even possible? 

Could it be true?

He did not notice as the pacing of his feet carried him out the door of the sitting room, and then out the door of Valjean’s home, so profoundly lost in thought was he. He was almost to the corner of the street when the dawning sun pierced the fog of his mind; he looked up, startled.

When had he come outside?

He looked around, astounded; the street was deserted. Valjean had not followed him.

Embarrassment crept up his spine and under his collar, heating his cheeks. Had he really left the house without even realizing it? In over thirty years of police work, he had never been as out of sorts as this night. He should return immediately and demand that Valjean finish his explanation; a single act of kindness from a bishop could hardly explain why he’d stayed his hand. Even a normal man would have been tempted after—

After… 

… he was so tired.

Javert exhaled in a great gust, hand running through his whiskers once more. He needed to rest; even if Valjean were to finish his explanation, he hardly had the faculties to know what to make of it at present.

He had no idea why, but Valjean had not run when he’d had the chance. He felt fairly certain he would not run if he left him now. Tomorrow, then. Thus decided, he turned on his heel and walked away. 

Tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, many thanks to the sewerchat beta fish (especially Emm, for catching every single time I didn't properly italicise the word _bergère_ ). What would I do without you folks!

Despite his body crying out for rest, however, Javert forced himself to return to the police station that morning – only to discover, to his horror, that the letter he’d written in his moment of insanity had already been found and delivered. Gisquet called him into his office almost immediately upon his arrival, and Javert obeyed; the men under his command observed him walking down the hall with the air of one going to the gallows. More than one bemused glance was shared. 

However, after confirming to Gisquet that he had indeed been the one to write the letter, the conversation took a turn Javert did not expect.

“I take full responsibility for my words,  _ Monsieur le Préfet _ ,” he told the man, “and shall submit to any punishment you deem fitting.” His hands found themselves clasped behind his back once more, and he attempted to force his spine into its usual ramrod straightness, though his entire being seemed unreasonably heavy today. He braced himself for his imminent dismissal. It was just, he knew, and furthermore perfectly reasonable. It was not his place to criticise his superiors’ decisions, nor should he have been arrogant enough to think he could offer advice.

“I will be frank, Javert,” Gisquet replied gravely, “it is not the content of this letter that concerns me, so much as the timing of it.”

“Sir?” Javert met his superior’s gaze in confusion. “I… I do not take your meaning.” 

Had he been able to see himself through Gisquet’s eyes, he might have understood the man’s concerns better. Javert, who had never once hesitated, never once shown doubt or remorse, now carried such a sombre, uncertain air all of a sudden, that the Préfet could not help but be perturbed at the sight. Moreover, Javert had arrived late for his shift, for what, Gisquet thought privately, must have been the first time in his life. That, if nothing else, clearly signalled that something was wrong.

“Good God, man!” he exclaimed. “You would not be the first to be overwhelmed at the sight of so much bloodshed. You would not even be the first officer in this station to express such feelings. Am I right in thinking it was what you witnessed at the barricade that brought this on?”

Gisquet was at once completely wrong, and totally correct. It had indeed been what he’d witnessed at the barricade that had caused Javert to write the letter – but it was not bloodshed that had done it, but mercy. And yet, how to express that in a way the  _ Préfét _ might understand? He hardly understood it himself. There was a long silence as Javert searched for the right words, and found himself unequal to the task. He could not explain it. He could explain even less his strange certainty that, should he decide to arrest him after all, Valjean would be waiting and come willingly.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said at last.

“And just how long have you been sitting on these qualms?” Gisquet asked, picking up the letter and waving it in the air. 

“I – I do not know.” That, at least, was the whole and uncomplicated truth. Javert was not a man prone to self-reflection; it had all burst out of him like a last, desperate gasp. He’d never truly thought about any of it before.

“At any rate, I happen to agree with a number of your points,” Gisquet sighed, and Javert was unable to contain the choked-off sound of surprise that rose in his throat. He… agreed? It was unfathomable. He’d so thoroughly exceeded the bounds of his position as a Police Inspector – someone duty-bound to  _ serve _ the law, not pass judgment on it himself – that Gisquet should be railing against him, not condoning his actions.

“But this is a conversation that will keep for a few days,” the  _ Préfét _ continued, fixing him with a piercing stare. “Go  _ home, _ Javert. Until tomorrow, at least. You are swaying where you stand.”

And that, as they say, was that. His tone brooked no objection. For a few moments Javert could do nothing but stare incredulously. Then he bowed low, folding at the waist, and left Gisquet’s office.

He sighed in frustration as he exited the police station. First Valjean, a dangerous criminal, had elected to set him free instead of taking his revenge. And now his superior had responded to criticism of the entire social and judicial organisation – criticism the likes of which Javert had  _ never _ offered before – not with the anger that would be due his station, but with agreement and… concern. For  _ him. _

He had never experienced the like.

In his agitated state of mind, he did not realise that he had never wanted or needed anyone’s concern before, and would certainly have rejected it if offered. Such thoughts were beyond him at present.

He returned to his apartment, collapsed onto his bed fully clothed, and slept for almost eighteen hours. When he awoke once more, the moon was high in the sky. His mind was whirling as though he’d never gone to sleep in the first place, and he could feel the pull of a phantom rope around his neck.

❁

A day later, Javert found himself before Vajean’s door once more. It was almost sundown; the late afternoon sun turned the window panes gold, and the sky was tinged pink. He’d gone to the station that morning only to find that Gisquet had confined him to his desk; despite his immense hatred of paperwork, he’d acquiesced without complaint. It was, he supposed, a fitting sort of punishment, being condemned to stay at his desk and write. Gisquet was, however unknowingly, acting in the public’s best interests. Better still if he had dismissed Javert, but until he could figure out the enigma that was Jean Valjean, he could not be trusted to enforce the law.

It was this thought – the thought that he deserved all this and more – that had hounded him all through the day, and so he returned more determined than ever to do his duty.

This time, Valjean opened the door almost instantly; he looked faintly surprised.

“I am here to arrest you,” Javert declared, before he could speak. He hated how much it sounded like he was trying to convince himself of that fact.

“Oh – of course.” Something shuttered in Valjean’s expression, and he drew in on himself; for a moment all was silent but for the distant sounds of city life.

A thought occurred to Javert then.

“You claimed the bishop told the gendarmes the silver was a gift,” he said; Valjean nodded slowly. “Were this so, you would have no reason to decide to break parole – no reason to flee.” Had he caught Valjean in a lie? That he hadn’t immediately spotted it yesterday – well, no matter; it was plain to him now. That information would, of course, be important to include in his report, when he arrested Valjean. Without a full account of just how he’d come to vanish for nearly a decade, it would be incomplete.

“It was not… so much a decision as—” Valjean broke off, his expression now tinged with something almost sheepish. “Well, at any rate, it is something of a long story. Might I offer you some tea while I explain, at least?”

Javert blinked, taken completely aback, and shot Valjean a disbelieving look. 

“I am hardly likely to run now,” Valjean said wryly, shrugging one broad shoulder. That, at least, was true, Javert had to admit. He couldn’t pretend to understand it, but Valjean had failed to take advantage of any of the opportunities to escape Javert had so carelessly given him. Not yesterday, and not… not the night he’d left him after taking the damn schoolboy’s corpse to Rue des Filles du Calvaire.

Grudgingly, he nodded, and allowed Valjean to show him into the same parlour they’d sat in two days ago.

“I’m afraid my housekeeper is – out, at the moment,” Valjean said, stumbling slightly over the words. “So I shall have to brew it myself, if you’ll excuse me a moment.”

Javert was half tempted to follow him down the hall into the kitchen; the idea of simply  _ trusting _ Valjean to go away and return still sat wrong with him. But again he reminded himself that Valjean had stayed willingly thus far – and so he settled into the same  _ bergère _ he’d sat in a few days ago to wait. So, Valjean did have a housekeeper, he thought to himself; no doubt that was who he’d been worried about waking the other morning. Javert wondered if Valjean had sent her away on purpose, expecting his return; it seemed far-fetched, but then, he’d always been canny. He’d known that even in Montreuil-sur-Mer.

_ “In mercy’s name, Javert – give me three days, then I’ll return.” _

Javert drew in a sharp breath as the memory stirred without warning. He had not thought of that night in years, except to curse the fact Valjean had slipped through his fingers yet again. For the first time, he wondered: if he had allowed Valjean to leave then – if he had done the unthinkable, and trusted him to keep his word – would he have returned?

If he had, Valjean would have been sent to the  _ bagne  _ for life, and Javert would have had his brains blown out at the barricade. That, at least, would have been more fitting. Neater.

It was useless to speculate, at any rate. Likely it had only been the words of a convict grasping at anything that might let him escape. There’d been nothing stopping him from turning himself in these past ten years, after all.

The sound of a door opening jarred Javert from his reverie, and he shifted in the  _ bergère _ to see Valjean entering with a tray. On it was a small teapot, two delicate china teacups on saucers, and a small pot of sugar. Valjean poured the tea, then placed one of the teacups on the end table and handed him the other. Javert took it with a grimace; it was so delicate it felt like the handle might snap off in his fingers if he gripped it too firmly. The cups alone looked to cost more than Javert earned in a month; when Valjean lifted the lid to stir a small spoonful into his tea, he saw the sugar was white and fine.

“Now, if I recall our last conversation—”

“You were to explain your decision to break parole,” Javert cut him off. The last thing he was interested in was pleasantries.

The corner of Valjean’s lip quirked, though Javert had difficulty reading the emotion behind it. “Indeed. Though it was more a matter of happenstance than any planning on my part. Perhaps it is better simply to explain the events, and then you can judge for yourself.” He raised the teacup to his lips, and glanced at Javert over the top of it. “I promise you the tea’s not poisoned.”

Javert blinked. “It hardly could be; you poured both cups from the same pot. You would have had to poison my teacup, if anything.”

Valjean coughed in a way that sounded to him suspiciously like he was smothering a laugh. “Then I promise you the cup isn’t poisoned, either.”

Still, Javert hesitated a moment before drinking – not out of real worry Valjean had poisoned his cup, but simply because taking tea with the man he’d spent nigh-on two decades chasing felt… wrong. But then, nothing had felt  _ right _ since that night at the barricades. He took a sip.

The tea was good. Dark, surprisingly strong, and with just a hint of sweetness to it, even without sugar.

“After the bishop gave me the candlesticks,” Valjean began slowly, “I fled from Digne like a man being hunted – I darted down trails without knowing where I was going; I doubled back without meaning to goodness knows how many times. I hardly knew what I did. When I left the gates of Digne, it was dawn; by dusk I was hardly more than an hour’s walk from them,” Valjean snorted. 

“Of course, nobody was chasing me. Monseigneur Myriel was a man of God, beloved by the town; the gendarmes took him at his word. But even so, I felt as though I was running from something. Perhaps I was – from his words, or from his kindness. I had never known such mercy; I think I was afraid of what it meant for me.”

“And yet, the same day you were accused of stealing forty sous from a  _ Savoyard _ boy,” Javert countered. Hardly the actions of a man overwhelmed by an act of kindness, as he claimed to have been.

Valjean made a small sound in his throat, and his brows drew together in an unhappy line. “I did,” he acknowledged, shoulders curving in on themselves. He stared down into his teacup as though he might disappear into it, if he could. 

“The sun had almost set when I finally stopped running. I was sitting by a thicket when the  _ Savoyard _ came along – Petit Gervais, his name was. I remember it even now. I confess I – I’m not sure how it happened. I remember him talking to me, but my head was so full I could not understand what he was saying. I told him to clear off, but he refused; I shook my stick at him to scare him away.

“He took off running, and only then, when I lifted my foot—” Valjean broke off with a shudder. “Only then did I see the forty-sous coin beneath it. I didn’t even know what I was seeing, at first. He must have dropped it, and I put my foot on it without thinking. I do not recall,” he sighed.

Javert directed a flat look at him. “You stole his forty-sous piece… by  _ accident.” _ He’d heard a lot of excuses from a lot of criminals over the years, but this! This was the best of the lot.

“It sounds rather unbelievable, I know. But I promise you it was so.” Valjean met his gaze directly, and Javert saw not a shred of duplicity in his eyes. It was the truth. Damn him, he was telling the truth.

Still, a crime was a crime, no matter how unwittingly it had been committed. Ignorance was no excuse.

“When I realised what it was I had done, I attempted to return the forty-sous piece, but of course that was impossible! Petit Gervais was long gone by then. Desperate to make things right, I stopped a passing abbé and begged him to have me arrested, but my appearance frightened him off.

“Whatever you may think of me, I must have thought of myself at that moment. I finally saw myself as others must see me – what a wretched man, what a fearful brute!” The teacup wobbled in Valjean’s grip, and he set it aside. His hands were trembling. “To have committed such a crime against a young boy, and after the bishop had shown me mercy! I had failed utterly at the only thing he asked of me in exchange for my freedom – to become an honest man. It seemed to me then that there were only two paths I could take; either I must become the worst of men, or strive to be the best of them. It was the only way I could redeem myself.”

Javert flinched, and tea splashed over his fingers; to hear such a close echo of his own thoughts from Valjean’s mouth was beyond unnerving. But Valjean’s gaze was distant, and he appeared not to have noticed Javert’s reaction. He took another sip of tea, trying to calm the sudden thudding of his heart.

“And your… disappearance?”

Valjean closed his eyes for a long moment; when he reopened them, he appeared composed. 

“That came after. I headed north from Digne; I knew if I could sell the silverware, I could use the money to become an honest man – but how to sell it in the first place? Even though I had money, most honest folk refused to deal with me, as I have said. I attempted to sell the cutlery first – in Valence, I believe it was – but few would buy what they rightfully believed to be stolen, and those that were willing would not offer near what the silver was worth. And so, not knowing quite what to do… I finally came to Montreuil-sur-Mer.”

Javert sat up straighter in his chair. Valjean had been in Montreuil-sur-Mer for some time before his posting there – enough time to acquire a factory, fund two schools and a hospital, and gain the respect of the entire town – but the gap between what he hadn’t seen for himself and what he had was narrowing. It felt, absurdly, almost like the feeling of gaining on a fleeing man, even though they were already sitting facing each other.

“The very same day I arrived, a great fire broke out in the town hall.”

Javert blinked. “I’d heard of that – it was some years before I arrived.”

“Indeed; towards the end of 1815. It would have been just a few weeks after I left Digne, to be precise. I hurried to the town square, intending to help the men carrying water to dampen the nearby buildings, and was met with the sight of the captain of the gendarmerie being restrained by one of his men. He was trying to run into the burning building; his children were inside, you see.

“It felt like a sign from God – an opportunity, perhaps, to make up for my bit of thievery, or to die trying. In truth, I think I expected to perish in that inferno, but instead I found the children, and they were alive, though the house was in flames around them.”

“And you led them out?”

“I had to carry them out, I’m afraid; they’d inhaled so much smoke they could not walk.”

Javert did some quick mental calculations; when he’d arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer, the captain’s eldest had been almost fully grown. In 1815, they would have been… twelve and nine years old, or thereabouts. His eyebrows inched towards his hairline. Once again he was reminded of how abominably strong Valjean was: a normal man would certainly have struggled to carry both children.

“When I emerged, the captain shook my hand and asked my name; I searched for my passport to show the man – only to find it had burned to nothing in the blaze. I had no papers to show.”

“Surely not!” Javert exclaimed.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Still,” he mused, sitting back in the  _ bergère, _ “you could have informed the captain of your status, papers or no.”

“I could have, but…” one hand crept up to the back of Valjean’s neck, towards the spot where Javert knew the  _ bagnards’ _ chains were bolted. “The captain of the gendarmerie was so overcome that he did not think to ask – nobody asked – and so this, too, felt like a sign from God. Perhaps the smoke had simply gone to my head. At any rate, I did not have the strength to tell him.”

“And so you gave them a false name.”

“I told them I was named Madeleine, yes.” Valjean bowed his head.

For a moment silence reigned; suddenly, Javert realised just how late it was. The sky outside the window was the lavender-purple of dusk, and the last dregs of tea in his cup had gone completely cold. Valjean seemed to realise it too, at the same moment, for the slope of his shoulders grew taut, and he hunched further in upon himself.

“Ah – well, that was the why of it, anyhow. Now that you have your answer, I expect you shall…” he trailed off; one hand twitched towards the edge of his sleeve. Javert stood, and Valjean drew back in his seat minutely, raising his head only enough to look at Javert through the curls of his fringe.

“Indeed, I—” the air felt thick quite suddenly, and Javert’s breaths came short and shallow. “I should…” One hand trailed to the pocket of his greatcoat, traced the outline of the handcuffs inside it. Valjean was immobile, eyes fixed on Javert’s hands; still he made no move to flee. The silence between them was absolute. The moment stretched like a cord about to fray.

Javert bowed jerkily, and spun on his heel, striding from the room before Valjean could do more than utter a wordless exclamation of surprise.

He pulled the front door with enough force to slam it shut behind him, and then he strode off down the street, walking so quickly he almost bowled over a pair of women as he rounded the corner.

“Oh!” The younger of the two stepped hastily aside, eyes wide.

_ “Excusez-moi, Mesdames,” _ he muttered out of pure reflex, inclining his head.

❁

Sleep eluded Javert that night. His entire life, he’d been able to sleep nearly anywhere, at any time – a necessary ability for a member of the police and doubly so for a spy used to long stakeouts – but now he tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position. On the single table in his apartment, he could see the dull glint of his handcuffs reflecting the moonlight. When he finally slipped into slumber, he dreamed of the barricade.

_ Hands on his upper arms, restraining him. The point of a rifle digging into his back. _

_ “The people will decide your fate, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.” _

_ A figure at the doorway of the café; white hair and hazel eyes. _

He woke at sunrise with Valjean’s name on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it'sssss a struggle
> 
> also, his will probably surprise nobody, but the scene with Gisquet, and Gisquet's characterisation in general, were both heavily inspired by A Reflection of Starlight by AutumnGracy. It's one of those rare transcendental fics that impacted me on a deep emotional level, so I just had to pay homage <3
> 
>   
> come yell with me about gay old frenchmen on [tumblr!](https://desertflower-s.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at notes*
> 
> *sighs and ups chapter count to 5*

Javert pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling forcefully.

Reminding himself that being confined to his desk to write reports was a punishment he was entirely deserving of did not, unfortunately, make it any easier to actually write the reports. And the complicated business of keeping the peace necessitated many, _many_ reports.

To add to his natural distaste for writing and his lack of sleep from the night before, his thoughts today were constantly occupied with Valjean. He had been about to arrest him – had been on the point of withdrawing his handcuffs from the pocket of his greatcoat – and then he had found himself frozen. He had not been able to bring himself to do it, but neither could he stomach the idea of simply letting Valjean go free. His mind spun like a cartwheel on a muddy slope.

If he believed Valjean was sincere about the effect the bishop of Digne’s mercy had had on him – and, against all odds, Javert found that he _did_ – then he truly had changed. Valjean was a good man.

But he had admitted to committing a crime in breaking parole. Good men did not commit crimes.

And yet, by the time Javert had arrived in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Valjean had gained the respect and affection of the entire citizenry. But were those not fruits of the poisoned tree?

… And just how had he managed to transform what was, by his own admission, only a few hundred francs’ worth of silver into enough wealth to employ half the town, as well as fund a school and hospital in the low city?

Javert frowned, straightening in his chair. Yes, how _had_ he done it? Even for a man as clever as Valjean, he could think of few ways of acquiring that much money that didn’t involve some sort of crime. He rose and strode over to the shelves, where his old case files on Valjean from Montreuil-sur-Mer still sat, collecting dust. Most of his old documents had been archived or disposed of, but these he had kept. He remembered being suspicious about the source of Madeleine’s wealth from the beginning.

Unfortunately, apart from the date the factory had passed from the old owner’s hands to Valjean’s, and a ten-year-old line from himself that the deed of sale had been verified to be genuine, there was nothing of substance on the topic in his notes. He hummed thoughtfully, scratching at his whiskers.

Well, then; he should confront Valjean directly, should he not? Yet again there was a gap in his knowledge only Valjean could fill. And perhaps – perhaps this would be the tipping point that finally did away with the damn indecision that kept stopping his feet.

❁

With an objective now in mind, he finished the day’s paperwork in record time, and he made his way to Rue de l’Homme Armé with a quick step, once more a hound on the scent.

He raised one fist and hammered on the door – and this time, when Valjean opened it, it was with a look of fear.

 _Good,_ Javert thought. It was right that he should fear the law.

“Valjean,” he said, smiling that terrible smile that was more canine than anything else; then, without waiting for the other man to reply, he pushed past him into the hallway.

“How is it,” he said, throwing open the door to the sitting room, “that a convict with no education can—”

He stopped short. There was a young woman sitting on the sofa, a teacup in her slender hands. She looked at him in surprise, lips slightly parted. Something about her seemed almost familiar.

“Papa…?” she asked, in a voice like a nightingale. “Who is this?”

Javert turned to see Valjean just behind him, his face white as a sheet. His gaze moved from the girl to Javert, and in his eyes he saw the same plea he’d seen in the eyes of hundreds of other criminals.

_Not here. Not yet._

He hadn’t seen it in Valjean’s since that night at the hospital, all those years ago.

“Ah,” he said, feeling suddenly awkward and having no idea why. He bowed. “Forgive the intrusion, Mademoiselle, I…” he trailed off, at a loss as to what to say.

There was a moment of excruciating silence before Valjean recovered enough to say, haltingly, “Cosette, this – is Inspector Javert, with the police. Inspector, this is… my daughter, Cosette Fauchelevent.”

His _daughter._ Now there was something Javert had never expected. And Fauchelevent - that must be the name Valjean was living under. It, too, felt familiar – where had he heard it before?

“Ah, how intriguing!” the girl exclaimed, with a smile like the sun. “I had no idea Papa had a friend among the police!” Out of the corner of his eye, Javert saw Valjean start at the word _friend._

Something nagged at him. The girl looked to be at least sixteen or so, and Valjean had had no child in Montreuil-sur-Mer. But he’d only been in Paris for—

_Oh._

_Brown eyes, supplicating._

_“There’s a child who sorely needs me, please, Monsieur – they’ll turn her out on the highway, to fend for herself, in the middle of winter!”_

_“In mercy’s name, Javert – give me three days, then I’ll return.”_

His mind made the connection like lightning striking out of the blue: the girl sitting in front of him had to be that woman’s daughter – the whore from Montreuil-sur-Mer. He looked at Valjean, stunned, then back at the girl. It had been nearly a decade, but he still remembered the woman’s face; he could see some of it in the girl’s, now.

Another thing Valjean hadn’t been lying about.

He realised suddenly the conversation had been left entirely hanging, and scrambled to remember what had been said.

“I… we have been acquainted for many years – though it was not as close an acquaintance as you might think.” The feeling of awkwardness had increased tenfold; he couldn’t bear another minute in this room. He turned abruptly.

“Our conversation can wait until a later date, V—” Valjean’s eyes widened in panic. “Fauchelevent,” Javert corrected hastily, using the surname Valjean had given. It took every shred of his self-control to bow politely and exit the room at a measured pace. After a moment, he heard Valjean hurrying to follow him down the stairs.

As they reached the street, Javert paused, one foot still on the lintel.

“That’s her, isn’t it,” he said thoughtfully. “The daughter of that whore—”

“ _Javert,_ ” Valjean cut him off. His voice was low, but furious – _he_ was furious, Javert realised, as he’d never seen him be before. He took a half step back reflexively, suddenly very aware of how strong Valjean still was, and how badly he’d just put his foot in it.

But Valjean stayed where he was, and – after visibly composing himself – simply said, “Please don’t speak of her in those terms.” It was unclear whether he was talking about the woman or the girl, but Javert nodded either way.

“... I wasn’t aware you’d kept her,” he said hesitatingly. _I hadn’t realised you’d been honest about your intentions that night._

“I – yes,” Valjean replied, the forbidding expression bleeding from his face, replaced with obvious affection. It made the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle. “She is the best thing that has ever happened to me; I do not deserve her, but I treasure her all the same. It’s selfish, I know – but all the same, I don’t know what I would do without her. Of course,” he continued, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, “if the Pontmercy boy recovers, they will surely be wed.”

“The schoolboy!” Javert exclaimed. “So he still lives.”

“Indeed,” Valjean said wryly. “Though the doctors say his condition is grave. I’m rather surprised you hadn’t inquired after him sooner.”

“Only because I was certain he was a corpse. He may yet become one, as you say.”

“He may.” Valjean did not look entirely unhappy at the prospect; odd, considering the trouble he’d gone to, carting him through half the sewage in Paris to safety. Another thing about Valjean he did not comprehend.

“Well,” he said, when the silence stretched between them for a moment. “I shall leave you, then – for now.”

“Ah – you caught us just after lunch, but Cosette usually visits the house on Rue des Filles du Calvaire in the afternoon,” Valjean called before he could take more than a few steps.

“I see.”

“And – Javert? Thank you.”

He hardly knew what to say in response to that. Never before had he been _thanked_ by a man he meant to apprehend; part of him wanted to fling it back in Valjean’s face, to tell him to save his gratitude, that he did not need or want it. But his tongue seemed suddenly stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Instead he turned wordlessly, and left.

❁

_The smell of blood and gunpowder smoke hung heavy in the air; Valjean’s hand was a vise around his upper arm as he shoved him down the alley. Javert’s heart pounded a thunderous rhythm in his chest as he did his best not to stumble on the debris._

_He’d been calm, facing his death at the hands of the doomed revolutionaries, but now – now that it was Valjean, he felt the sudden urge to resist. Perhaps Valjean could sense it, because once they rounded the corner, he put a heavy hand on Javert’s shoulder, forcing him to kneel. He grunted as his knees hit the cobblestones._

_“Take your revenge,” he growled, looking at the pistol in Valjean’s hand. If he was lucky, Valjean wouldn’t drag it out. If he was lucky, he might be able to goad him into shooting him quickly. But rather than pulling the trigger, Valjean tucked the carbine into his waistband, instead drawing a switchblade and opening it._

_“A_ surin! _Of course; that suits you better.” So, Valjean meant to make this hurt – very well. It was no more than he’d expected. He swallowed, throat working against the rope._

_He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of screaming._

_Valjean leaned down, and the knife slid under the rope around Javert’s neck, resting gentle and cold against his pulse. The breath froze in Javert’s lungs—_

_And then Valjean pulled it up and out in one swift motion, and the rope fell away. Javert stared at it, uncomprehending, as he felt Valjean grab hold of his forearm and cut the ties binding his hands behind his back. He clenched his hands reflexively as the circulation returned suddenly to his fingers._

_“You are free.”_

_“I don’t understand,” he said numbly._

_Valjean stretched out a hand, palm up. For a moment Javert stared, unmoving – and then, slowly, tentatively, he placed his hand in Valjean’s, allowing him to pull him to his feet._

_“Why?” he asked. But Valjean was turning, about to walk away; Javert spun him and grabbed him by the lapels of his national guard uniform, shoving him at the wall._

_“Why did you do it?” It was half a snarl, and half a sob. “Tell me why, Valjean!”_

_Valjean was gone. Javert was alone._

_“Valjean? Val–”_

“–jean!”

Javert jerked back into wakefulness with a shout, breathing heavily, pulse racing as though he’d sprinted across the whole of Paris. For a moment he looked around, expecting to see brick and broken furniture and corpses, until he recognised the familiar outline of his apartment in the moonlight. 

He was home. The barricade was farther away with each passing day. Valjean was exactly where he’d left him, he was sure of it. He lay back down, trying to settle his frayed nerves, but it was some time before he managed to calm the pounding of his heart. 

❁

It took Javert several days to return to Rue de l’Homme Armé – and it was not for lack of opportunity. Something about the last visit had unsettled him, made the idea of looking Valjean in the eye and arresting him uncomfortable to contemplate. For the first time in his life, Javert found himself wondering how a man’s family might react to his arrest – his daughter, what would she make of it? Did she know he’d nearly arrested her mother? But for Valjean’s interference, the woman would have died in a jail cell, not a hospital bed.

He was unused to this sort of sentiment; he had no idea what to _do_ with it, or even whether it merited any consideration at all. Should he not dismiss it entirely? The law was the law, and had no care for feelings, after all. And yet, still he stayed away, burying himself in his paperwork, working shifts as long as when he’d been patrolling the city.

At last, however, the strange discomfort Javert carried in his chest faded, or the desire for answers began to outweigh it, and he resolved to return that afternoon. However, the nearer he got, the more that feeling of discomfort rose again; by the time he rounded the corner onto Rue de l’Homme Armé, he realised he was practically dragging his feet. This was – he could not allow it of himself. He knocked on Valjean’s door more forcefully than necessary to compensate. A middle-aged woman in a plain dress opened it: the housekeeper, evidently.

“I’m afraid Monsieur Fauchelevent is occupied at present,” she said, when he inquired after him, “but you are welcome to wait in the parlor, Monsieur…?”  
“Javert. Inspector, First Class.” However, over her shoulder he could see, at the end of the hall, what appeared to be the door to the kitchen. It was ajar, and through it he spied movement, and a familiar shock of snow-white hair.

“My business cannot wait,” he said curtly. “I will see him directly.” He strode past the housekeeper down the hall, ignoring her sputtered protest behind him.

He entered the kitchen to find Valjean elbow-deep in dirt, surrounded by potted plants – pruning or fertilising or something, Javert didn’t know; he’d never had the least interest in horticulture, despite the (in retrospect, _profoundly_ embarrassing) moment in Montreuil-sur-Mer where he’d made a half-baked plan to become a farmer. A light breeze was coming in through the open window, making the curtains sway.

Valjean looked up as he came in.

“Javert,” he greeted, brushing dirt off his palms. And then – and then, in the next moment, Javert wondered whether he’d gone mad, for it seemed to be that Valjean directed the tiniest of _smiles_ at him. If he’d blinked, he would have missed it, but he wasn’t one of the keenest eyes in the _préfecture_ for nothing. Still, how strange, for a criminal – for _anyone_ – to smile at him, no matter how fleetingly. Stranger still was the heat that rose under his collar at the sight. It stopped him short, overcome with sudden uncertainty; he’d been about to say something, he knew, but now he could not think of what.

“... You enjoy gardening,” was what came out instead, and immediately he felt like a fool for stating something so patently obvious. Valjean was rich; he wouldn’t be caring for the plants himself if he didn’t enjoy it.

Valjean had been a tree-pruner before his first arrest, he knew. Did it remind him of his past? The reports had made some mention of a family.

“I do,” Valjean replied evenly, as he cleared a few stray stalks off the kitchen table. 

“Apologies, sir.” The housekeeper had come up behind him; Javert glanced at her over his shoulder. “I did inform _Monsieur l’Inspecteur_ that you were busy, but…” She shot him a look Javert recognised as carefully contained annoyance. He’d seen it a thousand times from his junior officers – usually whenever he pointed out their mistakes.

“It’s quite all right, Toussaint; I’ve been expecting the Inspector. In fact, would you mind taking the new lint over to Cosette? The basket should be at the top of the stairs. And please stay with her; no doubt she will insist on returning after dark again.”

“Of course, Monsieur.” She bobbed a curtsy, and then Javert and Valjean were left alone once more. For a moment neither spoke.

“This apartment has no garden, so I—” Valjean began before cutting himself off, flushing slightly. “Well, I suppose that’s not important. I believe you had a question for me?”

Yes; that was why he’d come, after all, was it not? Now, with nobody around to interrupt them, there was nothing to stop him from learning the truth of whether Valjean had come by his fortune legally or not. Enough delays.

“How is it that you acquired such wealth in Montreuil-sur-Mer?” he asked brusquely. “You had no education and no background in industry.” He met Valjean’s eye. “And you did not sell the candlesticks. You could not have had more than a few hundred francs to your name; how did you come to own a successful factory?”

Valjean’s expression – contrary to what Javert might have expected – seemed to brighten slightly.

“Ah, that’s quite the story,” he said. “Here, I will make tea; it’s likely to take some time to tell. Please, sit – unless you’d rather move to the parlour instead?”

“What do I care?” He pulled out a chair and sat, removing his gloves and tossing them on the table.

Valjean washed the remaining earth off his hands in the kitchen’s metal dishpan; when he dried them, Javert saw a brief flash of silver scars wrapping around his wrists that had previously been concealed by dirt, before Valjean buttoned his cuffs back up. Remnants of the _bagne_ that could not be washed away. He drew in a breath, but Valjean was standing with his back turned to Javert, reaching into a cabinet for the kettle, and did not notice his reaction. He set it on the stove to boil, dumped a few spoonfuls of tea into the teapot, and sat down at the side of the table adjacent to Javert’s. 

“As a matter of fact the factory was not successful when I acquired it; that was the only reason I – ah, I am getting ahead of myself, forgive me. I should collect my thoughts first.”

 _“Je vous en prie,”_ Javert muttered distractedly. He had gone quite still in his chair as Valjean sat down, perturbed at his sudden nearness. It was the closest they’d been since the night of the revolution. Since that moment in the alleyway. It seemed to him he could feel the heat that radiated from Valjean, despite the gap between them. Or perhaps it was only the warmth of the summer afternoon.

“At first,” Valjean said, more slowly this time, “I was content simply to live quietly with the money I’d gained selling the plates and cutlery. I began to read: fiction, science, business; the subject did not matter. I read every book I could. Through them, I experienced everything I had not been able to in – well, before.” His hands curled around each other, resting on the worn table. His scars were completely hidden by the cuffs of his sleeves; how far up his arms did they extend, Javert wondered, suddenly curious.

“I think I must have read enough in the first three months of my residence there to fill half the Bibliothèque Mazarine,” Valjean continued, oblivious to Javert’s thoughts. “And then, at the beginning of 1816, the news came that the old factory was to close. Half the town would be out of work! So I – ah, excuse me. The water is ready.” 

He stood to fetch the kettle from the stove; a fragrant curl of steam rose through the air as he poured water into the teapot. 

“I knew something ought to be done, if at all possible,” he said. “As it happens I had recently taken an interest in the town’s industry. So I went to the owner of the factory; I managed to convince him to sell it and his remaining stock for a pittance, in exchange for taking on the associated debts. I’d had an idea, you see, on how one might substitute shellac for resin in the production…”

Valjean began to explain – in some detail – the improvements he’d made to the factory, and how they’d allowed him to pay off the previous owner’s debts and remain open, pausing only to pour the tea. It was more than Javert ever needed or wanted to know about the particulars of the black-glass industry, but he found himself unwilling to interrupt. Instead he focused on how Valjean’s hands moved as he explained the manufacturing process, as though fashioning an invisible rosary of his own. In Montreuil-sur-Mer, Valjean had only ever treated him with exact and distant politeness – cordiality he knew now had been a mask for fear. In the past few days his conduct had been similar, save that politeness, no longer tasked with concealment, had walked openly hand-in-hand with bleak resignation. Now he was animated in a way Javert had never seen before.

“… with those innovations in place, the profits for that quarter were enough to fund the extra hospital beds, though I had not expected my work to attract such attention, and – oh.” Valjean seemed suddenly to remember where he was. “That was… perhaps more detail than was required. I apologise,” he finished awkwardly.

“You have, at the very least, convinced me your knowledge of manufacturing is genuine,” Javert replied dryly. To his surprise, Valjean laughed – just once, and quietly, but it was unmistakable. Javert’s hand twitched slightly against the leg of his trousers under the table, and he sat back, suddenly restless.

Well then; well! Valjean’s wealth had indeed been acquired by honest means. So much for that.

“How much money did you end up spending on the town, in the end?” he asked distractedly. It was something of an insensitive question, but then, most of Javert’s career consisted of asking insensitive questions.

“Counting wages, the hospital and the schools? Perhaps… a million francs.”

Javert did his best not to gape at the sum, and was not entirely sure he succeeded. A _million_ francs.

“And you can swear that you committed no other crimes during your time in Montreuil-sur-Mer?” he asked, when at last he recovered. He scratched at his whiskers, fully expecting Valjean to confirm that he had not and put paid to this line of inquiry, but instead a blush spread over the man’s cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“Well,” he said, fidgeting with his cravat. Javert sat up, back ramrod straight, pulse suddenly racing; there was a feeling in the pit of his stomach; he could not decide if it was anticipation or dread. It felt like both, and neither.

Valjean said, “I’m told entering a garret without permission is against the law – though I entered to leave money, not take it.”

Javert blinked, stunned. “You,” he said dumbly. He put a hand to his temple, sighing. This – this impossible man, this criminal saint, who broke the law not to steal but to give, who’d had his greatest enemy in the palm of his hand, and had let him go free!

But of course Valjean hadn’t considered him an enemy, had he? He’d said as much. The law had destined them to be so, but he certainly had little enough consideration for what the law decreed. But what _could_ Javert be, other than his enemy, the shadow that stalked his steps and plagued his nightmares?

“Many of the working poor were too proud to take charity,” Valjean was saying, palms raised, entirely ignorant of the direction Javert’s thoughts had taken, “else I would not have done it! It really was the only way.”

“Of course,” Javert shot back sarcastically. “I shall be sure to mention that in my report, when I arrest you.”

“Ah.” Valjean seemed to deflate, the corners of his mouth turned down. The light within him dimmed, and his shoulders drew inward as though to make himself small.

Javert’s heart, which had heretofore been an unmoving lump, gave a sudden lurch then. He frowned. Where did this sudden sensation of distaste come from, this curious revolt inside his chest? It drove him to do _something,_ but he knew not what.

“You… I believe you were telling me of the hospital.”

“I – yes.” Valjean resumed speaking, disjointedly at first, and then more smoothly, of his philanthropic work, and how it had at last attracted the attention of the King himself.

“... and, well. I declined the honor of the Mayor’s chain the first time, but by then the people seemed to consider it _fait accompli._ I remember,” Valjean said wryly, “an old woman berating me for false humility, when I could do good for the town. I could not say no after that.” He ran a hand through his snow-white curls, and then rested his chin in it. Javert was struck by how _ordinary_ he seemed then, seated at that kitchen table, empty teacup in front of him. He could have been anyone. Just a man.

“It was shortly thereafter that you arrived,” Valjean said after a long pause. “And… I suppose you know the rest of the story.”

“Not quite,” Javert countered, standing and reaching for his gloves. The sun was setting; it was late once more. Again the time had slipped by without his realising it.

“Perhaps next time you will tell me how you slipped my grasp at the North Gate of Paris,” he said, then cleared his throat. “Before I arrest you, that is.”

“Surely you have enough already to justify arresting me?” Valjean smiled bitterly, staring down at the kitchen table.

“Indeed I do. But…”

“But?” he looked up in surprise.

“I’m… curious,” Javert admitted, grudgingly. 

Some new, unreadable emotion dawned on Valjean’s face. “I see,” he said, then he stood as well. Javert let himself be shown to the front door.

“In that case,” Valjean said, opening it, “I suppose I will see you soon.”

“Once my latest business is concluded, yes. Do _not_ break into any more garrets while I am away.” He rolled his eyes.

“I believe I can promise you I will not.” 

As he stepped through the doorway, Valjean smiled at him again, tentative but there. This time, Javert was certain he had not imagined it.


End file.
